


Blind Eye

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Blood Play, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Order Fascism, Forced Cannibalism, Frightening displays of Possession, Gaslighting, He creates a fake life upon Earth just to deceive her, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren fucks random women and convinces himself it’s OC, Kylo suffers from severe psychological problems, Manipulation, Murder, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Non-consensual Exhibitionism, OC (Sunflower) is Precious, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Shrines involving Dead Bodies, Skull Fucking, Slow Burn, Smoking, Stalking, innocence kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29549325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: Kylo Ren inherits a deadly obsession for a quaint, homebody girl that lives her life as a recluse on planet Earth.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Life Imitates Art

The valley was swathed in an array of vibrant wildflowers— speckling like honey under the suns golden, jovial rays. The clouds rolled in with a genial, humid breeze, that could smother anyone's lungs with the nectary scent of spring making it's seamless conversion into summer.

The river toppled mellowly through the burrow. Water plunging into the grassy, rigidity terrain surrounding it. Hills rolled through the valley in lumps of plantation, tendrils of overgrown grass curling and swaying with the muggy wind.

Encompassed by the plains of tethered canary and bristly ferns, was the girl.

Secluded by the bushels of plantation and the towering weeping-willows that loom over the untamed field of coruscating colors and moist grass. Blooming-blossoms spiral from the ancient trees, that house layers and layers of bark from decades ago. The crevices of the cherry-wood were slack and flaky, holding nature's past like an archive of all things... Earth.

Earth was a bewildering planet, Kylo thought.

Bustling with a species of humankind— similar to himself, except so rationalized and unscathed by the havoc of war that doused the rest of the Galaxy. So engrossed with the bubble of the atmosphere that gated them in, to even peer through the ozone layers that surfaced around them.

It was puzzling, Kylo concludes. Strange. Industrialized to the point that a detrimental fog polluted every cities air. Ran by diverse governments that united to coerce their civilians into consuming products that only pumped them full of toxins.

Kylo hypocritically sneers at the thought. Something about feasting on the sight of Earth's desolate facultative system was enough to make him disregard his own dictatorship in which he ruled— and terrorized his subjects with.

Although Earth was thriving recreationally and culturally— they lacked an abundance of things that the Outer Rim possessed. Modernized architecture. Advanced technology, specifically traveling equipment. 

They were blanketed in ignorance about the Galaxy beyond. Even sectors of the Solar System remain uncharted due to the lack of progressive technology that they had.

Kylo scoffs. Leather digits curling around the base of the joystick that mechanized one of the probe-droids he had rewired. With a bit of tampering he was able to disconnect it from the First Order's main technological advancements. Uncoordinating it from the strictly facultated system it was once authorized by.

"Come on." He murmurs to himself. Voice hoarse with fatigue, groggy with the cycle of already dearth-sleep that had been disrupted by the low, terse chirp that radiated from the transmitter channeled to the probe-droid.

It wasn't like he obtained much sleep anyways. Not when nightmares of his fathers death plagued his mind with every chance at slumber he earned.

His fingers pock and pry at the control panel with an impatient jab. "Come on." He leers, voice thick with malice, teeth gritting, as he briskly flicks a switch and veers the joystick around firmly.

The droids trite lens expand to their full capacity with a creaky zilch. Activating panorama mode. Permitting him a full, high-definition view of the secluded meadow of flowers— her retreat. Her benign little domain. Her sanctuary amid the safe embrace of Mother Nature.

It was his favorite sight to behold. Her. Sweat slicken. Honeysuckle locks untamed and mosied with strands of grass. Supple flesh flushed scarlet and sun-kissed, brazen and bathing under the suns frivolous golden rays. Splurges of paint patching to her skin in colorful clumps, blue and yellow fingerprints blotching her wrists, jaw, forehead, and even her knees.

He sighs contently. Satisfied, even with his burley frame stuffed into a stationary leather seat, back hunched as he looms over the makeshift panel of his droid. 

Hazel eyes twinkling curiously as they scrutinize the screen that displayed her and her ethereal beauty like she herself was the celestial show, and him the bystander fortunate enough to bask in the glow she broadcasted.

His finger worms across the panel, gingerly plucking into one of the sleak buttons. Zooming in on her agilely. The droid whirs artificially, soaring through the clear, blue sky. Lens clicking, zoning in on her.

The exterior of her was a bewitching coerce. You would have thought that her beautiful desćollage was the only virtuous thing about her, her insides shriveled rotten and withered with all seven sins. But she was just as polished on the inside as she was divine and tokenized on the outside. 

She harvested a captivating, spitfire of a soul. Everything he never knew he was looking for.

Her bohemian, floral sundress flowed and flapped with the wind, hiking up her plump thighs, showcasing the marks that stretched along the pliant flesh. Her hair billows with the breeze, tickling her rouge, burnt cheeks. She giggles, as a monarch butterfly gently flutters across her face, skidding across her nose.

She rolls over gleefully, soil-stained barefeet kicking giddily as she tumbles to her stomach. The silky hem of her dress rides up the backs of her godly-crafted, perfectly imperfect legs, brimming her butt, revealing the ripples of cellulite that pecked her skin.

Kylo groans. Fingers twiddling, tapping mundanely upon his thigh. Like a tick. As he tried to suppress the festering need for her— the earthling— that kindled in his chest.

And his groin.

He snarls, as she feathers a dainty hand through her sleek, honey-blonde locks. She hums an upbeat, pacified tune, so soft and calm. A faint smile ghosting her lips, as she toys with freshly blossomed petals, fingers tracing the leaves, surveying the stems. Treating every single pedal, of every single flower, like it's the most fascinating thing she had ever laid eyes upon.

Kylo watches her, the way she watches the flowers. Attentively. With a glint of tantalization gleaming in his ravenous eyes. A look so thirsty and inquisitive, it would leave anyone parched and drained of all vitality.

She delves into the nectary, pollinated abyss of flowers, nearly dissipating through the array of colorful specks littering the valley. 

His eyebrows crinkle. Posture straightening. Stance nearly fidgety and trepidated. "Closer." He mumbles to the droid, fisting the joystick, the permanent knit of his brows broadcasting his concern.

The bushel of overgrown ferns and swaying canary plants bristle and shuffle, as her pale, pudgy skin contrasts with the colorful plantation. His free hand coils around the ledge of his seat apprehensively.

Kylo Ren does not appreciate the way his pulse skyrockets whenever she's simply out of droids-view. Does not, like the way his gut gyrates and churns with unease at the simplest glimpse of her unsafety.

This... infatuation had grown to be unhealthy. It started off as a harmless... glimpse at the life, of a young, coy, audacious girl like herself. Just out of bitter curiosity— for amusement. So he could remark about Earth's drab atmosphere to himself later on.

What started as harmless, soon festered to be a tumor. Swelling, ballooning throughout his body, pumping it full of a lustful perseverance that had never spurred there before. A vessel that sprouts and soars through his veins, traversing his body with miraculous meaning.

She thumps out of the quarry of plants. Tousled head popping up. Wide, chocolatey-brown eyes flickering around the field sheepishly. Tendrils of grass and twigs poking out of her tangled, ratty, golden hair. Framing her face in sweaty, grassy knots. She puffs out her round, sun-flushed cheeks. Button nose scrunching, as she puckers her uneven rosebud lips and blows a strand of sticky hair out of her face.

She sweeps all of the baby hairs out of her face, smearing off the sweat that laps at her forehead, situating herself on her knees with a sigh. The hilt of her flowy dress tickling the tips of the grass, flapping with the breeze, goosebumps slithering across her skin as she smoothes her dress back down.

She ascends to her feet— bare. Swathed in dirt, that nooked into the crevices of her toes, which she wiggles into the mildewed grass. She then scoops up her wicker basket, tucking it into the cranny of her elbow. Galloping around the field, pillaging through the flowers, plucking baby pansy's, outdated daffodils, sprinkling tiny anemones into the basket alongside the variety of other flowers she had picked.

She flops back-first into a plush patch of unripe irises, bees skidding and buzzing away defeatedly, as she chuckles at the venomous hums they spear at her. She drapes her forearm over her eyes, shielding them from the blistering sun— revealing the minimalistic, inky black Larkspur imprinted into her forearm, the pedals trailing to her palm, blossoming in the center.

Kylo had never seen anything like it. A painful, permanent art that embeds into a humans skin. Her flesh an eternal canvas for the art that she chooses to portray. Speaking of art; her other tattoos conveyed her admiration for it blatantly.

"life imitates art." 

A trivial, cursive sequence reads, looping and twining around the breadth of her underboob. Dark and potent enough to discern, light enough to conceal. 

A cluster of three paltry, Morpho butterflies speckled the space encompassing the back of her earlobe. He imagines the way she would shudder at the impact of his calloused fingers, tracing the moral outlines of her tattoos. His fingers recoil from the control panel at the sensual fantasy.

She lay, doused in the muck of chummy dirt, immersed in the suns splintering rays. Basically broiling under the heat it radiates. Not a care nor triumph to tend to. Ankles crossed— another inky flower pocked into the skin there— as she absorbed every fiber of nutrients that the sun lurched at her.

Kylo was completely engrossed by her; innocently sprawling in a field of flowers, basket stuffed-full of pollinated vessels, dress scrappy and scuffed with paint, dirt, and pollen.

His datapad blares drably upon the titanium cubby he stored all of his un-personalized belongings in. The wail of an appending alert signal ricocheting around the durasteel walls of his quarters. It was literally and metaphorically a rude wake up call— a reminder that he had a disposition of immorality to maintain.

The Supreme Leader, the ruler of the fascist Galactic Empire, the First Order, was smitten over an earthling. The same man that corrupted the surface of every planet that he touched, was wreathing with inclination and lust for a lonely girl that lives amongst an even lonelier planet.

He wallows away from the storage sector he had scrapped to become a surveillance room. All for her. And he skulks across the floor in his heavy boots. Hauling on his robes with belligerent tugs. Draping his cape over his broad shoulders, that he rolls stiffly in order to replenish the lack of blood that pumped throughout his body.

His gloved hands threaded through his glossy, disheveled hair once to tame it. Before his brooding face disappeared under the mask he wore so well. The corridors winding to his quarters whir briskly as he stomps through, emerging with sinister intent and long, warped strides. Cape billowing behind him as he pivots every corner with determination. Navigating the halls of the Finalizer like second nature.

Until later, my Sunflower. He leers internally.

«« • »»

She lived the simplest life.

Hidden in a mossy, Colonial estate that was camouflaged by shrubbery and towering, sixty-foot pine trees. Promptly, hand-polished windows always ajar and allowing the springs jagged breeze through her cozy little home. Vines rooted from the victorian bricks, wrapping around her house that was strictly foundationed by Old-Money.

The plants encompassing her secluded residence were watered due to her daily regiment of catering to the plants, and catering to her freshly tended to, combed black-cat. Poppy was the name embroidered into the milky-purple collar garbing it's fluffy neck.

It was 7:34. Standard Earth time. 

In approximately one minute. She would saunter through the creaky, chipping back door. Barefoot and mucked up in her paint-sullied overalls that she always cladded herself in during the evening. She would call for her cat, that was adventurous and odious, to come eat the bowl of organic kibble she had doctored up for the feline friend he had found that she treasured.

On occasion, the pesky, enigmatic creature would plop the dead carcass of a bird, squirrel or even a rabbit down by her feet. Followed by a meek mewl, a slow blink, and a tiny black paw scooting the dead body closer to her.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Only the cat had prowled on a new prey.

"Poppy!" Her candied voice ripens his ears in bliss, as she calls softly for her cat. Her name echoing throughout the darkening forest that swallowed her entirely.

She robustly shakes the bowl of food. "Come on, girl!" She shouts. "Time to eat!"

Tapping her foot into the rustic, squeaky floor of her porch. Hip jutted, hand shaking the bowl briskly, expression steamy with lighthearted spitfire.

"Your supper's gonna get cold, girl!" She quips to the muggy air that smothered her.

Kylo huffs.

"I'll leave the back door open..." she sighs. Wedging her toe into the screen door, using a lousy brick to prop it open. Inviting the misquotes and torrid evening humidity through the threshold of her home.

She wrestled with the door, balancing the bowl of kibble and cat treats she had lured out in order to coax her precious Poppy into accompanying her for dinner.

She chews her rouge, blistered lips— that were cracked just a smidge from where she had nibbled and suckled on them out of trepidation. One buckled-sleeve of her oversized overalls glid all the way down her shoulder, revealing the sprinkles of perspiration that beaded there and on her clavicle. 

Her exposed side-breast that was paler than the rest of her sun caressed body peered through the droopy undersection of her overalls, her tattoo winding around and poking through alongside the untouched flesh.

The men's overalls were bunched and rolled into cuffs at the bottom. With her just reaching 5'6, the pantlegs were in check for adjustments. The baggy get-up was doused in different colored streaks of paint, beads and smidges of it flaking all around the Carhart ensemble.

She was tracking white paint through the house. He was waiting for her to notice that the pads of her feet were drenched in it, trailing it all over her porch, and the mahogany wood floors of her home.

Her toenails were polished in a sheeny coat of scarlet. Bright red. Chipping from the amounts of times she had rammed her toes into the screen door, like how she battles with it as of now.

"Poppy!" She demands breathily. Impatiently. Blowing a strand of dewy, wavy-honeysuckle hair out of her face. As is escapes the bondage of the white handkerchief loosely bundling all of her hair together in a little disheveled knot.

The cat comes scampering up the rigidity stairs with a gentle meow. A device was lodged into its mouth, spiky teeth scraping through the queer object. Heavy, black titanium.

Kylo shifts apprehensively in his seat, as the cat plops the chunk of salvaged black metal at her feet with a heavy thump. She jolts, head snapping down to observe the slender device that tumbles at her feet. Sparking. Wires emerging from the dents it housed.

It was one of the probe-droids "tentacles."

"What'd you bring me today..." she murmurs under her breath. Folding at the waist to tamper with the slender device, eyebrows furrowed. Paint-speckled fingertips gliding across the matte black durasteel.

"Shit!" Kylo hisses, clenched fists pounding into the control panel in frustration.

The droids mechanics were running substantially, but with it being dismembered, he would have to recode it and signal it back to the Finalizer for repairs. 

He could not have his Sunflower discovering the droid. No. No— he would lose her. His dominion. His finest piece of escapism. His.

Poppy purrs, strutting, rubbing her frothed-up ears into her loyal owners leg. She chuckles, scratching her nimbly on the head, holding the "tentacle" in her other hand.

"This is new." She beams. Smiling at the object, surveying it with pinched brows. "I like it." She pipes, shooing the cat into the house, staggering through the threshold. Bringing the droids fractured leg and the cat kibble along with her.

"No..." Kylo mutters in disapproval, teeth barred, as he growls lowly to himself. His leather gloves squelch as he digs the tips of his fingers into his palms.

She disappears through the threshold. Flicking the porch light on, it's amber glow illuminating the space that consumes her estate. Nats cluster and flutter around vehemently. Tiny moths swarm her dim porch light. Frogs gurgle and croak off in the distance, where the coarse river meets the meadow just abroad the tree-line swarming her home.

Kylo's chest expands heftily with his labored breaths. Gloved digits skimming across the control panel. Mechanizing the droid to approach her window.

He could discern the clatter of pans. The boisterous whir of the fan. The sizzle of veggies simmering on the stove. And the clack of her kitties porcelain blue bowl as she tosses it to the floor, skidding it across the tile.

In approximately two minutes, the sautéing mushrooms that sizzled and sputtered in her copper pan were going to shrivel and burn. She always burns her dinner. Kylo also knew that in another ten minutes, she would result in scrapping the entire meal and starting anew. The meticulous part of her refused to succumb to the idea of a failed attempt at anything.

Her diet was a regulated-inconsistency altogether. An occasional banana or bowl of tasteless, sludgey oatmeal for breakfast. An American-Spirit-Orange cigarette for lunch. A dinner that she spends hours prepping and recooking two or three times, just to scarf it down without tentativeness and trot on back to her studio.

Although her cooking skills lacked, she tried with earnest to perfect each and every recipe she conveyed. Like she needed to master the most consummate meal in order to feel even remotely satisfied with the time she had wasted. She jots all of the recipes she thought-up into a journal of congested pages, being guarded by a peeling leather casing. 

She always spirals through it, marking up all of her recipes that resulted poorly, only to alter it and try again. And again. And again. Until the meal was edible enough to consume without her stomach rejecting it all, or her tongue recoiling at the horrid taste.

She was dedicated like that. Devoted to the most trivial things. It was another thing he was learning to admire about his Sunflower.

Her kitchen scene was always chaotic. Dishes stacked and piling in the sink, the faucet leaking ringlets of cool water, the basin deep and stainless steel. An array of pans dangled from the rack mounted above her Island, that was speckled in all of the ingredients she had used to mix a conjunction of sauce to douse her seasoned chicken in.

Her round, oak, country-style dining table was set promptly for one. A mason jar stashed full of miscellaneous flowers and dandelions stationed in the center. Her beige table runner with stringed-beads flaying the edges was smooth and picture perfect. As if she was due for an assemble of houseguests.

The only visitors she ever had were tax-collectors and loan sharks. The occasional visit from her sister, Beau— recently divorced mother of two, advocate for Children Services in Chicago— stumbled around too. Once every six-months. She was a character, to say the least. Depressed and wallowing around in her own mental despair. Bragging about her actually corrupt familial situation on platforms like Facebook.

The exuberant wail of her fire alarm disassociates Kylo from his thoughts, that had trailed elsewhere. He sighs. Kneading his forehead, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, as he watches her scramble around her kitchen in a full on mode of panic.

Using a blemished dish rag to waft the smoke out of her face, as it billows through the air, bleeding through the screens encasing her opened windows. She heaves, waving it out swiftly, staggering around the Island. She runs through the back door, stumbling down the stairs. Using a spatula to roughly pry the burning vegetables off of her pan, discarding them into the grass, panting.

"Damn it!" She cries. Stomping. Babbling like a flustered child. Sulking as she stomps up the creaky stairs. 

Her disheveled messy bun was now just a fringey cluster of hair, spazzing around her face in chaotic tendrils. The handkerchief she had looped around her bushel of wild hair in a bow was now escaping the knot.

She emerges through the haze of fog clouding the entire open, 18th-century foyer. Grumbling complaints to herself. Trudging her barefeet across the tile, as she maneuvers through her kitchen— Instead, she was heading to her studio. Apparently disregarding the idea of dinner altogether.

«« • »»

It was nearing 10:00pm.

Her signature slender, Filbert paint brush was tucked over her earlobe. Her lucky scalpel situated on the other. Bottom lip sucked between her teeth in concentration. Splurges of red paint smearing across her jawline and her browbone, speckling her greasy nose.

She applies tender strokes to the horizontal, lengthy canvas. Humming to herself. Brush slithering elegantly across, leaving ribbons of crimson in the wake of her strokes, that she applied with humble aptitude.

She had been endeavored with her painting for hours now. Her oversized, cream cardigan limply draped over her shoulders. Fleetwood Mac emitting from the radio that flourished her studio with staticky music. Swaying her hips, twirling on her barefeet, the paint-blotched floors groaning beneath her cheery gallops throughout her studio. Her palette that housed dollops of warm-tone colors was cradled to her rib.

The walls were garnered in a collage of modpodged newspapers and magazine forums. Floor to ceiling. Twinkling string lights dangled vitally overhead, hanging from the outdated beams that buttressed the second floor. Her windows were decked in streamers that she had hand-sewn, the drapes billowing with the humid, midnight breeze.

The wind howls. The crickets chirp. The owls coo. The moons misanthropic glow illuminates the grass with its sapphire hue, projecting the ominous shadows of towering pine-trees. Her flesh was goose-pimpled where the wind had caressed her skin.

She does her normal clean-up routine, that was so methodical it was nearly ritualistic.

She analyzes the art she indulged in. Stroking her jaw, blemishing her face in even more paint. She adjusts the crooked Easel that the canvas is planted on. Surveys her work a second time. When she devours the site of her artwork and injects herself with all of the self-criticism she can project, she starts to tidy up.

Organizing all of her supplies into their designated, labeled drawers. Retiring all of the brushes she had utilized into a cup of murky water. She stands up on her tiptoes— just like she always does. Extending her limbs, shucking the squeaky window back down with a soft grunt. Wiping her grimy hands on her pants, giving her studio a thorough scan. Flicking the lights off. Pattering out of the studio, and up the stairs.

This was his favorite part of their evening. He loved spending their nights together, unbeknownst to her.

He averts the probe-droids path. Mechanizing it to fly to the second floor, soaring to her bathroom window, hovering near the waxed glass. Just in time. She slips through the crack of her white, french-linen bathroom door.

Tousled strands of hair swoop into her face as she cinches at the waist to tamper with the knobs of her bathtub. Testing the temperature of the water. Plugging the drain.

She rips the handkerchief out of her hair, heedlessly tossing it to the tiled floor. Ruffling through her tangles, wincing at herself, as her scuffed-up fingers thread through the knots. She shucks off her cardigan leisurely. Letting the sleeves drip down her arms, the knitted sweater pooling at her feet.

She sluggishly starts to unbuckle her overalls.

Kylo licks his rouge lips. Feeling that stir of inclination start to feast on his groin. His gloved hand lands on his thigh. Leather digits twitching.

Her thumbs hook through the buckle-sleeves, guiding them down her arms tenderly.

The moonlight bestowed upon her like a blue spotlight, accentuating all of her flawed features. Pastel skin milking in the cool-hued glow, glistening with beadlets of sweat that still clung to her skin from the springs intense humidity, as she slowly starts to unravel for him.

The jeans topple down her body. First, her breasts spring free, bouncing as she starts to wriggle her ass out of the overalls. Shimmying her ass out of the blemished pants, pale and plump and perfect in an essence that was so natural. Cellulite and stretch marks ripple across her cheeks, that were round and bare, jiggling as she kicks off the pantlegs that had bunched at her ankles. A pair of cotton panties stretching to accommodate her ass.

The dimples in her tailbone wink at him. All of her natural curves were winding and smooth. Dainty hands skimming along her hipdips, as she loops her fingers through her panties. Bending over as she drags them all the way down. Flexing her legs, swaying her ass.

Kylo's hand had grown a salacious mind of its own— palming his bulge through his already tight pants. Rubbing the tint that throbs and pierces through the leather. Growling.

She rolls her shoulders, raking her fingers through her mosied, honeysuckle-blonde hair, trying to scrape the clumps of paint out. She then rummages through her cabinet. Introducing a plethora of bath salts, a jar of shriveled rose pedals, and an array of herbs.

She sprinkles a pinch of Eucalyptus-enriched epsom salt into the bath. Followed by the pedals, and a tiny shrub of rosemary.

She slithers into the hot, bubbly water. Submerging herself completely, the tips of her hair soaked, as she dips the entirety of her body— other than her head— into the water. She dips her painted toes under the faucet, the scolding water cascading down her foot.

Her skin flushes under the heat, steam rolling off of her in evaporated waves. Her eyes were vehemently sealed shut, head resting peacefully on the porcelain base of her tub. She uses her foot to softly nudge the handle, turning the water off.

She was angelic, Kylo thought.

The moon shimmered in twinkling specks all over her mildly freckled skin. Highlighting her dewy forehead. Glistening off of the tip of her nose. Reflecting off of the suds that dribble down her body.

She was at peace— he was at peace.

The routine he is so accustomed to starts to take a turn when her hand snakes down her abdomen, disappearing through the bubbles that surface the steamy water. Her legs spread, and she mewls. Nagging at her bottom lip with her teeth, eyebrows weaving together.

Her fingers skim up, emerging through the water, stroking back down, disappearing again. She rolls her hips up into her touch, exhaling shakily, eyes still skewered shut.

Kylo's breath quivers. The tendons in his thighs flex tautly, as his cock leaps in his pants. The way her face scrunches in pleasure makes his heart pulsate in his throat and his dick.

She rubs tight circles into her clit, stroking her aching bud, stifling a moan. Ripples surface in the water around her hand as she gradually picks up her speed. Her breasts bounce with her labored breaths, as she squirms a bit, head craning back even further.

Kylo's gloved hand dips into his pants, circling his pulsating, red, dripping cock. His eyes bore through the screen, that displays her, wreathing and whimpering in the hot water, playing with herself. 

He pinches the head of his cock, thumbing the pearly dollop of precum that surfaces there. He spreads it around his shaft, pumping himself with leisure strokes, sticky leather gloves chafing his cock and sending a gyrate of warm, dizzying pleasure straight to his abdomen.

Fucking his own fist had never felt this good.

She chokes on a moan, leg spasming, water slushing and plunging into the mildewed walls of her shower. Fingers cramping up as she works fast at her clit, obscene whines crawling up her throat and reverberating around her moonlit bathroom. 

"Sunflower..." Kylo seethes in bliss through barred teeth, hips rutting up as he fists his cock rapidly, the fap of his glove savagely engulfing his cock echoing around his vacant, lonely quarters.

"Mmph." She sputters, neck straining, lips flopping agape as she arches her back out of the water, pussy drooling and clenching as she starts to ascend a high...

"That's right..." Kylo mutters, voice husky with inclination, breath hiccuping, as he pounds his cock harder. "Play with that pretty little cunt for me..."

The urge to throw his head back in pure pleasure taunts him, only he persists through the nearly agonizing bliss churning in his abdomen and pulsating in his wet cock. Keeping his eyes locked, wide and unblinking, on the screen.

A hitched purr shreds through her throat, hips bucking, water droplets splurging through the air, as she props her foot on the faucet, kneading manic circles into herself. Legs spread wide, jaw slack, breathy moans squealing from her lips.

Her wet pussy was drenched, sudsy, throbbing and pink under the nights pacifying glow. Kylo nearly explodes, an animalistic groan punching through his lungs. Grizzly grunts escaping his dry throat.

"Fuck!" They both gasp.

She thrashes and convulses, rubbing swiftly, moaning, trying to sustain the pleasure that overworks her entire body. Kylo hisses curses, as hot, white jets of cum burst from his cock, shooting ribbons of his seed all over the control panel, his knee buckling into the joystick.

The probe-droid thunks straight into the window.

She squeaks in astonishment, scrambling upwards, sending water sploshing into the tub and splattering all over the tiled floors. She was heaving. Brown eyes wide in panic, dilated in bewilderment, eyes squinted as she tries to discern the suspect of the noise through the darkness blanketing her view of everything beyond the panes of glass.

"Shit." Kylo breathes. Pursing his lips. Cock still sticky and stiff as a board in his lap, as he hurriedly reels the joystick back.

The last thing he sees before steering the probe-droid away from her window, is her slick, bare body as she toppled out of the tub and unethically wraps herself in a towel, sprinting through the threshold.


	2. Transfixed

"Commander." A venomous voice snides.

Kylo's broad chest swells with his mundane breath. Undereye twitching beneath the mask that menacingly garners his face. He whips around to stand mask-to-face with his notorious opposer, cape billowing at the brisk movement.

"General." He tuts back. Deadpan. Voice housing an ominous spite that booms through the durasteel halls of the Finalizer.

"Supreme Leader Snoke has requested—"

"All life-forms upon Yavin have been eliminated." Kylo Incites blatantly, coldly, disregarding the vile look of bewilderment that creeps onto the Generals pale face.

"You assumed to command my army?" General Hux gruffs through barred teeth, chin quivering, features contorting into a beat-red snarl.

"As Commander, I find that you're ideology is of no importance to me." Kylo retorts firmly back, patronizing Hux with a taunt that rumbles in the back of his chest but never fully emerges. "I assume to command my army."

Hux scoffs, a roar building at the back of his throat. "Your army?" He exclaims, ginger eyebrows furrowed, penetrating-blue eyes gleaming with contempt. Eyeing his exceptionally taller comrade with malice, hands firmly eloped behind his back.

Kylo's silence was boisterous in comparison to the hot words of irritation that heated the tip of his tongue. He was a man of few words, the opposite of articulate.

"Well, then." Hux gawks, clearly struggling to suppress the disbelief and envy that courses through every indignant vein that winds his body. "I presume a squadron of TIEs will be successfully navigating Snoke's newest conquest soon. Upon your command."

Now Kylo was listening.

Stringing himself more vigilantly, his fists ball and curl as they swing nefariously by his sides. He rewards the General with another appending, deafening round of silence.

"We have speculations of another system just beyond the Outer Rim." The General says, squabbling as he tries to match Kylo's unreluctant strides. "The Supreme Leader senses an immense quantity of life festering from those regions—"

Kylo waves an abysmal hand of dismissal, reprimanding him with the sharp wave of his gloved hand.

"Enough." He growls.

Hux swallows, chin craning defiantly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "The humans abroad refer to it as the Solar System," he continues, voice smug, grin prudent. "And we have reason to believe Earth's population consists of strong candidates reasonable for recruitment."

Kylo blinks. The ornate silver visor shielding his vision making it easier to masquerade his even bleaker expression.

"Recruitment." He repeats blankly. Drawling methodically. Pausing mid-stride as he utters the word.

"Indeed, recruitments." The Generals words sharpen like keen daggers, conceited expression placated upon his face. "Already trained, prompted, and incited to kill. Phasma has been requesting that we make the Stormtroopers efforts more progressive for awhile now." He informs. "I hope you see as fits, Ren."

Cognitively— every single word General Hux spews only ricochets around the walls of Kylo's brain, failing to absorb, or obtain a thing. No— all he can envision is his Sunflower. 

Last he checked, approximately ten minutes ago, she was indulging in one of her flaking anthology novels. Snuggling up with Poppy on the wicker hammock that garners her back-patio. Knitted wool, salmon blanket bunching around her frame, that was clad in a white, skintight cami and a pair of cotton panties that adorned frail pink lace embroidery ruffling along the sides. The table adjacent to her swing was flourished by a mug of recently brewed chamomile tea, condensation cascading down the mosaic rim, steam billowing through the air—

"Commander." Another voice greets.

Thoughts of his Sunflower reluctantly start to retract, worming their way to the back of his brain, where they belonged— but always found a way to emerge from at the worst of times.

"Pryde." He states. Disregarding the General entirely, rekindling his facultated strides. Pryde marches to synchronize with the Commander. "Any advances." He implicates.

"No, unfortunately, sir—" He blubbers out. Wrinkled face screwed tautly in a look of sophisticated poignance. "The Night Buzzard has yet to transmit the statistics."

General Hux snarfs out a bitter cackle, trampling by his side, earning him a sharp glower from Kylo beneath his helmet.

"I find it treacherous. Are we certain that those masked-hooligans are capable of carrying out such a complex task?" He sneers, voice dripping in lethal disdain.

Kylo tsks, the sound just a low, synthesized rumble that sizzles from the modulator of his mask. "I suggest that you reevaluate the capabilities of your army, General. Before you undermine the skills of my Knights." He remarks monotonously.

Hux grumbles back, as Pryde continues to recite his inquests, "And 'Troopers have been sanctioned to board transports to Earth."

Kylo stalls— an immense wave of anger washing over and submerging him. "Sanctioned. By?" He bites through gritted teeth, chest heaving, leather gloves squelching as he clenches his fists.

The mass of domineering men bristle through to the command center, the corridor whirring brashly as it zilches shut behind them.

Pryde's ghoulish gray pupils flicker with dismay, as they flash to the General accusingly. His nearly skittish mechanisms told Kylo all he needed to know.

"General," he seethes, breaths laboring, voice hefty with ferocity. He whirls around leisurely to face him, compressing his lips together, as he starts to emit fumes of fury.

"Commander." He drawls back, radiating complacency at its finest. Cocking a fiery-ginger brow.

"This sanction was not authorized," he snaps. "You're arrogance has grown remarkable if you assume to dictate the First Order without warrant."

The General snickers. "It was approved by Supreme Leader Snoke before this mornings briefing," he declares shrewdly, basking in a glow of amusement that beams from every pore upon his grotesquely white face. "My apologies, commander, but you would've been knowledgeable of the alterations made prier from now if you hadn't been in your quarters groan--"

Kylo's hand extends at a speed brisker than revolt-- sending the General's body pummeling through the air, whirling into his leather-garbed grasp. His monstrous hand clamps around the Generals straining throat with an unyielding pressure, eliciting squeaks and croaks of defeat out of him. 

"I would advise limiting your quips, today, Hux." Kylo growls so lowly, that his voice quaked with abhorrence that was tactile amongst every crew-member stationed in the command center. 

He wrenches the General nearer to his ominously-masked face-- the synthesizer broadcasting a heap of grisly breaths, that fan through the modulator of his helmet-- "I hope I can help your feebleness understand," he mumbles belligerently enough to get his threat across, relishing in the trembling-of-lips he evokes from the General. "That my boundaries are not to be crossed."

Hux sputters out a snarl, "I d-don't f-fear you, Ren." His throat pulsates and bobs below the heel of Kylo's palm. "You're merely just a puppet!" He sheathes out in the form of a wail, thrashing his limbs aimlessly in the air, swinging his booted feet and grunting.

Unfazed, Kylo relents his grasp, applying a final squeeze to the Generals throat before tautly dropping his hand at his hip. "See to it that my privacy is never jeopardized again." He muses blankly, observing Hux as he wheezes and massages the bruises speckling his throat.

With a bristle of pure darkness, and the billow of his black robes-- he was gone.

«« • »»

The night's chilling breeze encompasses her body— embracing her with a humidity that could only amount to mid-spring. Her once steaming chamomile tea had withered to be a cold, bittersweet mug of chalky residue. The cool tea ripples with the breeze that strolls throughout her porch. The wind conveying the scent of appending thunderstorms.

The probe-droid whirs about her coiled frame. Scrutinizing her every, minuscule, movement. As she basked in a tranquil slumber that hooked her in and left her sheathed in unconsciousness. It was a peaceful moderation to Kylo's busy day of...commuting.

His quarters were smothered in darkness.

Fluorescent lights gratified from the station just a dozen light-years off, tinting off of the transparisteel panes of his floor-to-ceiling windows. Other than the artificially-hued lights that beamed through the sturdy glass, everything was dark.

Well. 

That's disregarding the screen that illuminates a high-quality image of his Sunflower snoring her apprehensions away in her macrame hammock.

It submerges his face in a white glow, his hazel eyes reflecting his fixation upon the nearly tactile portrayal of her in her most transient state. Sleeping soundly, emitting groggy mewls of fatigue. Eyelids flittering, dancing with the dreams that vanquished her mind. Moaning quietly as she shifts to sink deeper into the blanket's gentle seize.

Poppy clamors awake with a yawn, stretching her fury limbs, pawing bread into his Sunflowers leg. Nails snipping across the blanket, shredding strands of tethered fabric. Poppy then squeaks, extending her tail with a gentle sway. She meows, as she leaps off of the hammock. Padding across the creaky floorboards of the paint-blemished patio with her tiny black paws.

Kylo observes Poppy-- Sunflower's most loyal companion-- as she claws at the door, chirping out a teeny meow that read, "open the door."

She stirs. Only nimbly. Humming at her kitten in an absentminded acknowledgment, swatting strands of hair out of her face, keeping her eyes lightly skewered shut.

A bolt of lightening strikes off in the distance, followed by a grim rumble of thunder. Quaint dollops of water splurging through the dark storm clouds, smacking into the dry grass.

She inhales the tantalizing scent of fresh fallen rain, injecting it through her lungs, plowing up from her curled-up position with a stiff stretch. "What is it, Poppy?" She whispers groggily, folding at the waist to outstretch her hand and scratch her feline-friends fluffy back. In which Poppy responds with a content purr, arching her back into her owners comforting touch.

She gasps softly when she registers the storms aptitude, perking up. "It's raining." She murmurs giddily to herself, smirking drearily at Poppy-- who only offers her a couple vehement, unfazed blinks, and another meow.

With legs molded by what felt like Jello, she tramples off of her hammock, staggering down the three-stepped stairwell. Pattering through the grass that was already mildewed, soggy, mud emerging from the earthy soil beneath her toes.

Kylo finds himself suppressing... a smile. Propping his elbow on the slender armrest of his chair, curling his gloved index finger over his plump lips to conceal the smirk quirking at them.

He had to admit-- her joy was contagious. It surged through him like a pump of adrenaline, filtering his limbs, mobilizing them with a new profound sense of sedation. He finds himself welcoming this sensation, although, on any other accord, he would see that he demolishes any link that routed him to the lightside. Why was his Sunflower the only blurb of remote happiness that he tolerated?

Because she was his. Only his.

The young woman was deprived of the needs that she deserved to have fulfilled-- and Kylo had no idea if that was appeasing, or infuriating. Of course, her body left room to any mans imagination, by simply strolling along the street with her sunny disposition and raging... innocence.

Maker, her innocence.

It radiates off of her like a satellite-- reflecting a beacon of purity that left every man-- specifically one with the means and im-morals of Kylo Ren-- wanting.

Wanting to crush, corrupt, extinguish that fire of light that kindles within her.

"Woo!" She cheers, jerking Kylo out of the grasp of his sinister thoughts.

She swirls, skin absorbing every pallet of rain that dribbles from the sky. Murky, dirty water splashing around her barefeet, that were drenched in a layer of mud. 

Nipples... peeking through her now transparent cami, beady and pebbled, hardened with the intensity of the rains frigidness. Hair soaked, lushly plunging into her face as she skids around in a little rain dance. 

Kylo was no longer entertained. He was transfixed.

«« • »»

The bistros low-hanging lights cascaded around her like an amber spotlight. Warm, mellow, and nearly primitive. It glistens off of her skin, that was sullied in droplets of rain, that continues to billow down her bare legs in transient ribbons of earth's murky water.

"S-sorry I'm late," she blubbers, words slurred and breathy, as she threads her fingers through her drenched hair. Briskly brushing the ringlets of water off of her outdated, olive-green trench coat.

Keeping an eye on her when she meandered off to public establishments— like her unprofessional-profession as a barista in her small town of Forks, Washington— proved to be an arduous, difficult task.

The population was scarcely 3,800. Every civilian in this trivial little town were as equally as trite. They leaped over their own hurdles, and overall, minded the business that paid them. Everything was peaceful in Forks— except for the thunderous heaps of rain that blanketed the confined town merely everyday of the week. 

Weeks seemed to pass tediously when local activities were limited to fishing off the peninsula, and drinking every aspect of apprehension away at the nearest conservative pub.

His Sunflower... was different than the rest of the country-folk that leeched onto Forks.

She was the beaming contrast to the darkness that they submerged themselves in— Forks was populated with the insular types. They were ignorant, and they preferred to be oblivious to Earth's blood-curdling trials and tribulations.

Sunflower did not.

She was an eager consumer. She wanted to learn, explore, register every ounce of intel— whether meaningless or substantial— and reteach the world encompassing her.

She was... too good.

"It's the second time this week, Lee," her boss snaps, voice low and accusatory, as he sprinkles clumpy lumps of sugar into a freshly-conjured cold brew. "I thought we talked about leaving your house earlier. Y'know you live smack dead in the center of nowhere."

She frowns coyly, "I know..." her voice was small, cheeks ablaze with sheepishness, as she struts around the counter. "The roads were slick this morning, so I went extra slow."

"Hm." Her boss gruffs. Arranging an abundance of toppings for the drinks, rummaging through the mason jar of hazelnuts. "Just don't let it happen again, okay, hun?"

Kylo's eye twitches.

He surveys her boss with a look of malice scribbled across his face. His name was Grant Cooper. He was Thirty-Two, turning Thirty-Three on April 7th. Single father of two preteen daughters, commuting from the slummier ends of Seattle to run this little bistro.

Kylo knows every detail, over every aspect of Grant's life— as a matter of fact, there's a portion of his brain that stores every name, every address, every minor detail of everybodies life who had ever dared to utter a single word to his dear Sunflower— or as her co-workers call her, Lee. Short for Lola. Even shorter for Dolores.

"Yes, sir." She mumbles timidly, stroking strands of wet, curly baby hairs out of her face. Scrambling to tend to the next costumer, shucking her beige apron on with fidgety fingers. The emblem pressed into the material reading, Deja Brew.

She plasters on a candied, customer-serviced smile. Smoothing out her apron, that she had sewn patches onto just to garner it in little depictions of her bold disposition.

Unlike other Earthlings, she always broadcasts her glee. With her chirpy comments, beaming, pearly smiles, and the overall gentleness that clung onto her like a sweet perfume. She was the towns "burden," for her sunshine beams too brightly at times, blinding all desolates who are subjected to the opposing end of her happiness.

For hours, she offers amiable transactions with each and every customer— always piping a small joke, searching for a laugh out of someone. With her anti-rigorous occupation, she needed to seek out a thrill from somewhere, and planting a smile on a random customers face was a mantra she recited in her mind to sustain herself throughout the day.

In between shifts, she indulges in a flaky blueberry scone. Scarfing it down, crumbs spilling from her lips, chin squishing into her throat as she crams her mouth full. Disastrously slopped up with the gooey blueberries that smear around the corners of her lips.

Then, a man bristles through the double-glass doors. Strutting with the saunter of an enigma, clearly a mystery amongst the town, as he receives and abundance of bewildered, intrigued looks.

Kylo can feel the way Sunflower tenses when the mystery mans malicious, emerald-green eyes lock on hers— her trepidation was tangible, taking over his skin, ghosting his flesh.

The man proceeds to approach her designated booth that was crannied into the most secluded sector of the antique bistro.

Her body was rigid, as if it was sculpted by unpliable stone. She had paused mid-chew, a clump of half deteriorated scone poking through her squishy cheeks. Brown eyes blown aghastly wide.

The mans smug expression evokes a snarl out of Kylo, as he slithers into the rustic cherry-wood bench just across from her. "Lola." He smirks, hideously arrogant face taut with a look that was nearly patronizing.

She flinches as he purrs her name, not moving a muscle, other than the tendons of her left eyebag as she stares at him in disbelief. Half-eaten scone being embraced by her hands, hovering near her now clamped mouth.

Kylo plows upwards, face leveling with the screen, eyebrows furrowed inquisitively.

Just as he extends his hand to grapple with the joystick, the robust wail of sirens ricochets around his quarters, a coruscating red flashing dangerously upon every crevice of the purely durasteel space.

He hisses, powering off the probe-droid, storming out of the room he had dedicated to... observing her— his little observatory. The stampeding hurdle of Stormtroopers scouting the premise booms through the ominous halls of the Finalizer.

Kylo sweeps his helmet over his head in one smooth, flawless motion, capturing his hair and brooding face under the daunting masquerade. The air hisses, as it condenses within his helmet.

Marching through the threshold, he's met with his imbecile of a grueling comrade, General Hux. Panting, squabbling, tremoring with panic.

"General. What's this?" Kylo grits fiercely.

"The Resistance has been informed of our plan to dominate the habitable planets sectored in the Solar System," he explains through a strained, hitched breath, adjusting the collar of his black uniform with trembling gloved fingers. "They have planned an attack,"

"and, they have planned to conduct a warning signal— to Earth."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was a boring chapter— but it’s crucial for plot development!


End file.
